


Mother

by sayyesregent



Series: The Regent Verse [1]
Category: Into the Badlands (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, F/F, Feelings, Incest, Masturbation, Older Woman/Younger Woman, Pseudo-Incest, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-24
Updated: 2017-04-24
Packaged: 2018-10-23 11:44:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10718706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sayyesregent/pseuds/sayyesregent
Summary: There are many things that come from the heat of battle and the intimacy of training.  When even those become too much, the Widow and Tilda finally give in to the one thing that's always been between them.





	Mother

The Widow is injured, more than she lets on, and yet she remains standing tall in front of her Butterflies until she can dismiss them.  The battle to defend her oil fields was unexpected, the threat sneaking in under the cover of night and almost catching her unaware.  Luckily, her Butterflies responded the way they were trained, and with her swords joining theirs, the Clippers were put down without her girls sustaining much damage.  But a misstep and a lucky swipe from a dying Clipper meant that the Widow is nursing a wound that she is working hard to hide from the girls gathered in the atrium.

Despite the Widow’s best efforts, Tilda can tell she's hurt.  The normally confident angles of her body are curved slightly with pain and she feels her frustration grow as the Widow continues to deny herself medical attention.  And so, Tilda is curt with their Butterflies when there is a break in conversation, sending them out to tend their own wounds and continue their patrol.  The fact that the Widow doesn’t chastise her for the interruption tells her all she needs to know and gives her the strength to guide the Widow to her bedchamber.

Shaking off the hand at her elbow, the Widow steps in first and Tilda hears the door close as she continues on into the room, leaving them alone finally.

Looking around the room, Tilda’s voice is concerned when she doesn’t hear movement behind her and turns around.

"Mother?"

The Widow takes a halting step forward before falling to one knee, her breath harsh as it rushes past her parted lips.  Tilda is at her side immediately, kneeling to get a closer look at where the Widow is gripping her side.  It's then that Tilda sees the blood from a knife wound, a red slash marring the Widow's battle leathers.

"It's worse than you let on."

"It's a scratch."

But she won't meet Tilda's eyes and Tilda finds her frustration and worry building even more.  Without another word, Tilda gently helps the Widow stand up and guides her to sit on the nearest chair.  Pushing away the sudden fierce need to just wrap her arms around the Widow in a hug, Tilda clears her thoughts and gets to the task at hand, stripping the battle garments from the Widow’s body with practiced ease.  Leaving them there on the floor, Tilda allows herself one brief moment, her hand resting on the Widow’s shoulder before leaving her side.

Tilda’s movements gathering the needed supplies around the room are jerky, worry for the Widow warring with aches from Tilda's own nicks and bruises from battle.  She closes her eyes for a moment, her back to the Widow, and slips back into her Regent’s mask, her face calm as she walks back to the Widow’s side.  Tilda places the supplies on the table, filling a small bowl with warm water and picking up a clean cloth, water sloshing over the edge as the bowl trembles in her hand.  Before she can wet the cloth, the Widow's hand comes to rest on Tilda's and stills her nervous motion.

"I'm fine."

"You were..."

"I am alive. You are here with me. Our Butterflies live to fight another day. That's all that matters."

Giving in to the relief blooming warm under her skin, Tilda leans down and presses a shaky kiss to the Widow's cheek, pulling back at the Widow's hissed breath.

"Sorry, sorry."

"It's fine. But if you wouldn't mind pouring me a drink first before you clean and stitch me up?"

Nodding, Tilda stands up and finds the Widow watching her and she forces herself to hold the Widow’s gaze, trying and mostly succeeding to ignore the Widow's body in the candlelight flickering near the chair.  The smooth skin marred by blood, hers and others’, bruises already forming and the knife wound lazily bleeding along the Widow's ribs.  And still, Tilda is sure she's never seen anything more beautiful.

Brutally pushing her feelings aside, she goes to a side cabinet and pours the Widow her drink, relieved to find no trembling in her hand as she hands the glass over.  Tilda knows she'll need a steady hand to tend to her Baron.

And she knows that later, when she tends to herself in her bed chambers under her covers, there will be no one there to see just how unsteady the Widow makes her.

As Regent, she is entitled to her own room.  When she enters her room later that night, there is no one there to see her strip naked and slide under the covers, the sheets cool against her back.  There is no one to hear but she still bites her lip and stifles her moan as her fingers slide through the wetness between her legs.  It feels wrong to think of the Widow this way, but she can’t make herself stop.  The sweat and heat keep building under the covers and she wants to fling them off her overheated body, lungs desperate for the cooler air in her room.  But she doesn’t.  The thoughts she has feel heavy and dirty and she can block everything out in the darkness that being under the covers provides.  So, she doesn’t move the covers.  She only moves her fingers faster and harder, her other hand gripping at her own thigh and imaging it is her Baron’s hand there.  Images from the battle replay in her head, the Widow covered in blood splatter and grinning as another Clipper falls to her sword, and Tilda finally releases the moan she’s been holding in.  It’s the Widow’s fingers between her legs now, two slipping roughly inside as her palm taps wetly against her clit.  The worry from earlier is replaced with lust, twined with love, and Tilda comes with a low groan, the single word she utters only allowed in the secret darkness of her bed.

* * *

 

The Widow knows that her other Butterflies have been murmuring, curious as to why she's been attending all of their training sessions recently.  She makes sure they believe she is there to oversee them as they recover from the previous attack and prepare for any other attack that may come their way.  There is no lie to her being there, as her Butterflies are important to her.  As a flash of short dark hair captures her attention, the Widow knows that she is not being entirely truthful with her Butterflies.  Or herself.

Ignoring the pulse tugging low in her belly, the Widow turns her head.  Tilda's breathless greeting testing her resolve to ignore the flash of lust heating her skin.

"Mother! We weren't expecting you until weapons training tonight. Has something happened?"

The Widow senses the weight of dozens of pairs of eyes on them, but she merely carves a swath through her Butterflies with a carefully raised eyebrow.  Within seconds, she and Tilda are granted privacy.

There has been something building over these past couple of days and standing there with Tilda looking at her, the Widow shifts restlessly, tapping the knives strapped to her thighs in a nervous gesture.  Annoyed with herself, she turns on her heel and moves even further away from the training ground, knowing without looking that Tilda will follow.  She hears Tilda’s footsteps behind her and her stomach trembles again over Tilda’s unwavering compliance, her eagerness to follow the Widow’s lead is a powerful feeling.  One the Widow is currently feeling between her legs.  She finally stops walking, her wetness apparent with each step.  Closing her eyes to steel herself against the sight of Tilda sweaty and dirty from hand-to-hand combat training, the Widow smoothly turns back and manages to evenly meet Tilda's questioning gaze.

"Am I not allowed to check on the progress of my Butterflies?"

"Of course, Mother."

"Do you have anything to report regarding the new trainees?"

Long ingrained habit has her keeping half an ear to what Tilda is saying, years of plotting against her husband making her adept at listening and retaining information even while her mind wanders.

And wander it does as Tilda speaks animatedly, turning every so often to gesture to a Butterfly in training. The sun is setting behind the hedges rising up on the other side of the path they are standing on and the shadows being cast across her and Tilda make the Widow feel bold.  They are cut off for the moment from any wandering eyes and the darkness flicking around them seems fitting for the thoughts occupying the Widow’s mind.

Moving closer as Tilda's attention is once again on the training ground, the Widow instinctively controls a moan as Tilda turns around and brings their bodies into contact.

"What are you doing?"

The Widow arches her eyebrow, testing herself by running her finger slowly across Tilda’s cheek, disarming her with the motion.  "You should always be ready."

Savoring the brief look of confusion on Tilda's face, the Widow sweeps her leg out and sends Tilda onto her back on the dirt path.  Admiration follows soon after as Tilda quickly assesses the training session for what it is, scrambling to her feet as she parries the Widow's next attack.

The Widow tries not to be distracted, tries to turn this into an actual training session, but Tilda is one of her best Butterflies and she finds herself relaxing slightly just to feel Tilda hold on tighter, thinking she's gained an upper hand.  Allowing herself to be pulled closer in Tilda’s attempt to put her in a chokehold, the Widow barely holds back a moan this time as she feels Tilda’s breasts pressed tight against her back.  Desire and pride war within her as she takes stock of Tilda's skill as much as she does Tilda's body and she has to struggle for a moment to successfully break Tilda’s hold.

When a careless strike, dodged skillfully, brings their faces within inches of each other, the Widow catches Tilda looking down at her mouth.  The blue of Tilda’s eyes is almost gone and the Widow recognizes the mirror image of the lust she feels in her own body.  When Tilda leans closer, the Widow knows she has to end this and end it quickly.  Absorbing the punch of lust to her system and tamping down on the shame that always follows, she has Tilda on the ground again in two moves, holding her hands out to her side to indicate that the training session is over.

"Well done, Tilda."

Standing up slowly, Tilda's voice tinges with incredulity as she rubs at her shoulder. "You bested me."

"I did. As I should. But it took me longer this time and that is a testament to your training. Return to the rest of the group and I will see you all later this evening."

There's a small hesitation as Tilda just watches her but it's gone quickly and Tilda turns to jog back down the path.  Not waiting for Tilda to make it all the way to the training grounds, the Widow tucks up close to the tall hedges, the leaves more black than green now as the sun gives way to the moon. Loosening her leather belt, the Widow makes just enough room so she can reach one hand between her legs, finally giving in to her desire as she faintly hears the Butterflies lift their voices in greeting her Regent.

She knows she has to be quick, her mind already calculating when the next patrol might come by, and so she wastes no time in rubbing two fingers in tight circles around her clit.  She feels like she should be ashamed by how wet she is but she ignores that feeling in her brain and gives herself over to the pure pleasure of imagining that her fingers are Tilda’s tongue.  Her eyes close and every moment of her sparring session with Tilda comes racing back, the look of concentration on her face, the strength in her hands, the way her body moved as she fought back.  The Widow allows herself to continue the moment, picturing Tilda dropping to her knees in the ultimate submission, her eyes never leaving the Widow’s face as she leans forward and tastes the Widow’s wetness.  Her fingers move faster as sharp tugs of pleasure flutter between her legs, the image of Tilda’s mouth soft and warm against her, Tilda’s tongue stealing the breath from the Widow’s lungs as it presses inside of her.  She can hear voices of a patrol unit down the path and the Widow gives herself over to the one thing that always makes her come, her thighs shaking as her hips jerk hard against her fingertips.  The one word that brings pleasure and pain, and love, playing in her mind as she finally pulls her fingers out, buckling her pants quickly and jogging away just before she’s seen by her patrol.

* * *

 

"Mother? May I come in?"

Tilda's knock is tentative, her voice even more so, and the Widow has to take a moment.  It’s been five days since her sparring session with Tilda and she’s not sure if it’s her or if it’s Tilda, but things seem to have shifted between the two of them.  Their interactions, even the most benign interactions, feel heavy and leave her unsettled once she’s alone.  Her lack of control and discipline at the hedges the other day brought the Widow shame that trailed after her like a dirty gray fog.  She thought that distance from Tilda might be the answer, so she’d limited their time together, managing to avoid her for the entire day and feeling a small sense of relief for it.  But as she hears Tilda knock gently one more time, she has to take a deep breath before walking to the bed chamber door and opening it.  Tilda's hand falls away from the doorknob as she takes in the Widow's appearance.  Gesturing Tilda inside, the Widow shuts the door, absently tying the sash on her robe as she walks to where Tilda is standing.  Acutely aware that Tilda is still dressed in her Regent leathers from the day, the Widow feels off balance in her thin robe and compensates with a curt tone.

"What brings you to my room so late? Is there news of Quinn?"

"No, Mother."

Giving Tilda a moment to answer, the Widow raises her eyebrows at Tilda's silence, checking the urge to adjust her robe or sit down or do something.  The way Tilda is looking at her makes the Widow feel restless once again and she stands up straighter, determined to gain some sort of control back.

"Am I supposed to ascertain your purpose through your silence?"

There’s something that passes across Tilda’s face at the Widow’s tone, something that makes the Widow give in to her restlessness.  Not giving Tilda a chance to answer, she stalks over to a small table and pours a drink, swirling the amber liquid as she studies Tilda's back. Unseen by those sharp blue eyes, the Widow smoothly swallows the alcohol, her gaze dragging slowly across Tilda's body and noting with some pride at the way Tilda holds herself in her Regent's clothes.  But it’s not pride that has her waiting just a little longer, giving the alcohol a chance to warm her with its first bite.

Her skin feels hot across her body and the Widow brushes a trembling hand through her hair, worn down now that she’s retired for bedtime.  There is a weariness that also settles inside her at the thought of having to keep her guard up and she places the glass down with a little more force than necessary.  Letting the alcohol soothe her nerves, she walks back to stand in front of Tilda, letting out a small sigh at the continued silence.

"Tilda, this is tiresome. It's late and you are still dressed for patrol. Why are you here?"

The tremor that runs through Tilda's body has the Widow stepping forward in concern, all thought to other things pushed from her mind at the thought that Tilda might be ill or injured somehow.  With her weight shifted forward, she's unprepared for Tilda's hands suddenly on the side of her face, pulling her into a kiss.  It's just a hard press of warm lips against hers, a moment, before the Widow grips Tilda's upper arms and pushes her away.

"Mother...I...I'm sorry, I..."

Tilda’s words die out into a long silence and the Widow realizes that she is waiting for her to speak.  But she can’t.  Her body is a whirlwind of sharp emotions, all colliding and scraping inside of her and she lets out a small gasp as they all settle between her legs.  It’s become a familiar feeling lately and she’s grown adept at ignoring it or channeling it in another direction.  But she has the feel of Tilda’s lips on hers and nothing she’s done before can help her now.  Her body is tense and her mouth feels tight, the words barely escaping past her teeth as she finally addresses Tilda.

"What are you doing? Why did you do that?"

Of all the responses she expected, the one presented before her constricts all the air from the Widow’s lungs and has her gasping once again.  Kneeling before her, Tilda clasps her hands behind her back, her eyes locked on the Widow's face.

"Let me serve you."

Confusion pushes all other emotions aside and the Widow can only parrot the words back, her heart pounding in an uneven cadence in her chest. "Serve me?"

She can hear herself say the words but she feels like she's in a fog and considers briefly if her alcohol has been poisoned.  But as Tilda reaches forward, her leather clad fingers slowly wrapping around the sash tied around the Widow's waist, the rush of awareness careening through the Widow's body lets her know that she is solidly very present in this moment.

Taking the Widow's silence as permission to continue, Tilda rests her forehead against the Widow's stomach and her breath feels like fire as it moves through the thin fabric of the Widow's robe to warm her skin.

"Mother. Please."

Tilda’s words war with the logic screaming from the Widow's brain and she stands there motionless for a few seconds, wondering dimly if Tilda can smell her arousal.  She inhales sharply as Tilda slowly moves her head side to side, the sash loosening even as the Widow's hands tighten into fists at her side. The cooler air of her bed chamber sneaks across her skin as the robe inches open and it takes everything in her not to reach for Tilda right then and there.  She can feel Tilda’s excited breathing and even though Tilda is not looking at her, the Widow is brought back to her fantasy out by the training ground less than a week ago.  The part of her that’s telling her that this is wrong is slowly being drowned out by the waves of desire and love and lust washing over her with every breath from Tilda’s mouth.  It takes just a moment more before her decision is made.  With her heart racing, the Widow closes her eyes and gives in.  Finally.

Reaching down, she caresses the side of Tilda's face, tucking her thumb under Tilda's chin until her head tips back and the Widow can see her eyes.

"Say it again."

"Please."

"No."

She knows what she's asking and she sees the moment that Tilda knows, her soft mouth parting on a whisper of a moan. Pulling the sash from the robe, Tilda runs her hands across the Widow’s hips, the leather gloves warm as they slide across her lower back.  The Widow takes the hint and reaches up to pull the robe down her arms.  As it opens fully and slides to the floor, Tilda never looks away from the Widow's gaze, her bottom lip dragging across the soft skin of the Widow's stomach on the first letter.

" _Mother_..."

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I tagged this as incest/implied incest because while the Widow and Tilda's mother/daughter relationship is not a blood one, they do consider each other mother and daughter. It is also how they are officially defined on the show.


End file.
